Stumbling
by Madam Pudifoot
Summary: “I’m going to be a what!” His voice is a high pitched trill, though he can’t find it in him to be embarrassed, so great is his shock at the moment. --- A humorous misunderstanding leads to some tender moments between Alistair and his lady.


Hello there! I bring before you something both funny and fluffy, much like our beloved Alistair himself! This is for the Swooping_is_Bad community challenge; _I'm going to be a what! _

Major, major kudos go to **desertwillow** and **faeg_garav** from LiveJournal for their awesome betaing!

Enjoy!

**Stumbling**

"I'm going to be a _**what?" **_His voice is a high pitched trill, though he can't find it in him to be embarrassed, so great is his shock at the moment.

Sten sighs deeply, regarding him with that eerily cool expression. The qunari fixes his violet eyes on the would-be templar, scowling. "A boy playing at being a man. Do you know nothing of mating?" His voice is cold and matter-of-fact.

Alistair feels the heat rise to his cheeks as he stutters out some nonsensical sound. His tongue is suddenly large and clumsy and he can't form any words around it. In fact, he can't form any coherent thought and all he really wants to do is lay down because all of the blood has rushed to his head and he's afraid that he might faint.

"A father," Sten repeats for the third time. Or was it fourth?

That word sounds so very, very cold coming from him. Alistair shivers, breath coming in a short rasp, because he had hoped he was hearing things, but now he understands. Sort of. He understands that the word scares him, because he's in no way ready for that. After all, it is a very big, very important sort of word and he's never considered the possibility...

He's glad the women are still off bathing, because then this would be even more awkward and terrifying. As it is, Zevran and Oghren are staring at him, and even Shale is watching from the furthermost reaches of the campground.

The dwarf has his spoon halfway to his mouth, though its contents are now lost within the mass of filthy red curls he calls a beard. A chunk of beef peeks out through the braids, mocking him. Or maybe that's just his imagination. He thinks Zevran is probably laughing, but he can't hear anything aside from the rush of blood in his ears.

_Oh Maker, this isn't happening!_

"You are going to be a father. Why?"

Alistair laughs despite himself. It's more of a hysterical giggle, to be honest. Surely he is dreaming. This is too absurd to be real!

Sten growls, eyes narrowed, brows set low. He looks angry and Alistair feels his own temper flair. The murderous qunari isn't the one being interrogated over something so ludicrous. So-So… _important._

"I – **What**?" It's a pathetic outburst, but it's the only thing that he can bite out. His mind is still ensnared in an unnatural fog – not exactly the same kind _she _produces, because at least with Mel he's still able to hold a conversation and crack lame jokes and he doesn't feel so _helpless._ This is different; this is scary. But then, this is Sten he's talking about.

Again the man sighs before carefully setting his bowl of stew down at his feet. Alistair only now realizes that his own supper is a messy trail down his leg, pooling around his boots, the earthen bowl overturned several feet away. Had he really jumped so badly? He couldn't recall.

"When a woman wishes to conceive a child," Sten says slowly, as if he were speaking to one. "She seeks out the most promising member of the clan – always it is the strongest, the healthiest: the most dominant male. If the man finds the woman to be suitable – also healthy, with wide hips and firm breasts – he will accept her proposal. She then offers her body to him and he in turn gives her his seed. If the coupling is successful, a child will be conceived. Is this not the same in your land?"

Alistair's vision swims a little, and he can only glance helplessly around the fire at his companions. His stomach has twisted itself into an impossibly small knot and it _hurts_. Oh Maker, how it hurts.

"N-no. Yes? I-I don't kn—"

"It is not." The stern expression hasn't changed, not that it often does. Alistair concentrates on the fine lines etched into that bronzed face – it helps to ease the vertigo, to have something to focus on. "She is soft, yet believes herself to be a man. She has also taken _you_ as a mate."

He wants to say that there's nothing wrong with being soft. Or a leader, for that matter, but he chokes on his voice and contents himself with clenching his fists until his knuckles turn bone white against his tan.

"Vashedan!"

Alistair recoils, taken aback by the sudden expletive. He's not entirely sure what the word means, but he knows it's not exactly something you'd want your mother to overhear.

"Why should she want to bear a child when there is a Blight to stop? Do we not waste enough time as it is?"

He doesn't know what to say – it is true. Not that he thinks she had planned for it to happen.

And then it dawns on him that Sten of all people knows. True, Mel respects the man, maybe even considers him a friend. But would she really tell him before… Alistair chases the thought from his mind. She said she loved him – she wouldn't lie, would she? _No, of course not!_

"Does everyone know?" He hadn't meant to say that aloud, but his mouth has a habit of running away from him.

There is a painful silence around the campfire. Alistair can't bring himself to meet anyone's eyes. _Coward, _he mentally chides himself.

A smooth chuckle breaks the quiet and Alistair swallows, petrified. Zevran is only going to make all the more a fool of him, or possibly give the qunari a reason to hit him, which probably wouldn't take that much effort at this point.

"My fine friend," the elf says, voice low and sweet. "Here in Ferelden, they do not simply have sex for the sake of a child," he explains. "Here, we make _**love."**_ He practically purrs the last word.

Oghren bursts out laughing; that rough, obnoxious _hraherhehe_ almost deafening. Alistair really wants to punch him. He doesn't. Instead he stares down at a bit of carrot on his knee, but makes no move to brush it away. He likes the color of it, and besides, the carrot has never done anything to humiliate him.

"Little pike twirler's a man now!"

Yes, Alistair really wants to punch him.

"Love?" Sten grunts, ignoring Oghren.

He feels the assassin settle down next to him, a calloused hand clapping his shoulder almost fondly.

"The act is the same, this is true," Zevran says, leaning forward to see past Alistair's hunched form. "But it is done in a fit of passion. In a need to feel—"

"Yes, we've had sex," Alistair interrupts, his words far more bold than he himself. "There, I admit it. Just tell me: Does everyone know?" His cheeks and ears are burning, but he steels his courage and glances around the campfire.

"You only kept the entire camp awake, my fair friend," Zevran laughs. "Well, excluding our cave-dwelling companion here," he gestures at Oghren, who is red-faced, slapping his thigh comically. "Oghren time," he whispers conspiratorially. "It's like trying to wake the dead, you know."

Alistair decides then and there that he's going to find the tallest tree in the forest and hang himself from it. Blight take him, this is beyond ridiculous!

"It looks as if it is going to explode," Shale's voice calls out, the ground trembling as she strides towards them. Alistair doesn't know if she's referring to him or the dwarf.

"Ah, Shale, my glittering gem! So good of you to join us!"

"I only wished to see if its head would pop like a cherry—"

A howl sounds, followed by a loud _thump_ and Alistair looks away from the golem to find that Oghren has fallen off his log and is actually rolling on the ground, _in tears._

"That's it—" He makes to stand, but Zevran pulls him back down, his grip surprisingly firm. Sten is glowering at him, making it well known that this conversation is not over, and he suddenly feels like a small boy once more, caught stealing sweets from the kitchen.

"Andraste's flaming sword! What do you people want!" He is angry and embarrassed and absolutely without question scared out of his mind and he knows that they all know it too.

And then there is a big stone wall towering over him and for a moment he thinks – hopes – that Shale will do good on her word and squish his head and end this madness once and for all.

"It and—and our leader are close?"

"Really? I don't know that I'd say _that."_ Perhaps sarcasm isn't the best weapon against an immortal boulder that could quite easily crush him, but it's the only thing at his disposal right now.

"What does the large one mean, by giving herself? And seeds? Are humans similar to fruit?"

Alistair can only glare at her. She is mean. Surely she knows; she used to be a-a-a _she _after all!

"Parshaara," Sten growls, climbing to his feet; he stands almost eye-to-eye with the construct, which is no small feat in itself. "A man and a woman must mate in order to ensure the continuity of their blood. Only the most worthy of the species will reproduce, while the weak will die off."

"What does that have to do with fruit? Humans and fruit squish just as easily, but they share little else in common."

"You're all doing this on purpose. You want me to kill myself," Alistair mutters, but no one pays him any mind. Nothing new there.

"The seed is figurative. I do not know what it is called here."

"Nothing polite," Zevran snickers. "What Sten means to say is that a man has certain _equipment _in order to ah… deposit his _seed _into a woman's—"

Alistair jabs him none too gently in the ribs before he can finish.

"Such cruelty!" the rogue cries, glaring as he rubs his side. "And here I am, trying to explain the intricacies of life!"

"You mean humans have other parts they insert into each other, aside from tongues?" Shale truly sounds mortified; any other circumstance and Alistair would've been amused by the fact. "Disgusting! Oh, and the fluids! Always fluids!" Her huge frame quakes and Alistair can actually hear the sound of stones rumbling against each other.

They all watch as she tramples away, the ground shaking with each step.

"Are you quite done? Can someone please answer me? Pretty please?"

"Begging is so unbecoming," Leliana's soft voice rings out. "Especially from you, Alistair!"

His stomach lurches, not because of the bard, but rather because it means that she's not alone. He glances anxiously over his shoulder, and sure enough Wynne, Morrigan and Mel are trailing after her; all looking slightly damp, but fresh and content.

Mel sees him and smiles, giving a slight wave as the group approaches. And like a fool – the fool that he is – he waves back, straining a smile. She doesn't look any different than she ever has. Same robes, modest, save for that lovely corselet, which shows off her curves rather wonderfully. And there is that familiar sway of her hips, which has gotten him in trouble more than once. (Maker, but how could anyone really blame him for staring?) She seems happy – tired – but then, they all are. If she is… different, then it's not enough for him to tell, and if anyone is the authority on Meawen Amell, it has to be him.

She makes her way across the clearing, brushes the flap of her tent aside, and disappears into its protective folds. Alistair desperately wishes he could follow her, but he has no idea what he might say to her just yet. He needs to think. Not that he expects to with this lot ridiculing him.

"Oh, Alistair."

He bolts around, giving himself whiplash as he finds himself nose-to-nose with Wynne. The elder mage laughs, putting some distance between them. He expects she'll chide him for _leering_ again, even if he was most definitely not leering.

"I thought you told me you know where babies come from," Wynne's says, her eyes glimmering. She's smiling softly, eyes crinkled kindly, and her voice has taken on that grandmotherly tone; all of these things, Alistair has come to realize, are only present when she's teasing him. Because she's evil. Truly _evil._

"I **do **know," he growls, rubbing his sore neck. He especially doesn't like the way she's smiling at him, like she wants to pinch his cheeks and fix his hair and fawn over how _adorable _he is. He knows better.

"Now dear, you're all flustered. If you wanted to know, you had only to ask," Wynne continues gently, as if he hadn't replied at all. "I'm not sure Zevran is the best person to talk to, as much as he might know about the subject." She shoots the assassin an icy glare, showing just how much she disapproves of his promiscuity.

"Why Wynne," Zevran gasps, clutching his heart. "I am truly hurt by your lack of faith. How could I ever wish to disabuse my dear friend here? He is the very paragon of innocence; to corrupt him would be a sin in the Maker's eyes." He pauses, scrunching his face up in pain. "Oh, I fear I might cry. May I rest—"

"No. No you may not," Wynne snaps, crossing her arms protectively across her chest. "And stop asking." And then she spins on her heel, bee-lining for her tent, a scowl etched deeply into her features.

Alistair groans, rests his elbows on his knees and drapes his hands over his head. "This isn't _real." _Maybe if he's lucky he'll wake up in the Chantry and this whole Blight and all the fighting and all of these lunatics will just be another bad dream.

"What's going on?" Leliana giggles. He can feel her gaze resting on him, but he doesn't see the point in answering. She's already amused by his agony. She'll only join in on the hazing and he'll ask them to shut up or answer him and they'll ignore him and continue to laugh.

Life is cruel like that.

"Pike twirler's gunna be a papa!" Oghren yells, concluding his sentence with a loud belch. A slap lands so hard against his shoulder that his arm jolts from under him. Alistair grits his teeth, squeezes his eyes shut, and begins to count to twenty.

For a second there is silence. Then Leliana lets out an ear-splitting shriek, unlike anything he has ever heard before. Alistair leaps to his feet, spinning in circles, trying to find the source of her distress. There are no darkspawn, no bandits or cultists or angry mobs. He stumbles, flailing, as something crashes into him, only barely regaining his footing before he goes careening into Sten.

"Oh, I simply don't believe it!" Leliana cries, her grip on him vice-like. He twists uncomfortably, trying to free himself, but the bard only hugs him harder, crushing the air from his lungs. He realizes he is going to die like this: face a funny shade of purple, eyes bugging out of his head, and Leliana will still be giggling like a school-girl, bouncing and screeching and clinging to his corpse.

"Ah, my dear, maybe you should—"

"No, continue, _please,"_ a cold voice replies.

Alistair tenses, suppressing a shudder. _She_ is definitely not what he wants to deal with right now. He already has his hands full, figuratively, of course, because the bard has his arms pinned to his sides at the moment.

"T'would be no loss if he were to asphyxiate. Besides, I rather enjoy watching this."

As quickly as she had latched onto him, Leliana is gone. Alistair takes in a gasping breath, doubling over as an annoying, blinding white light obscures his vision. His temples throb and he wonders if it might be best to pass out, for sanity's sake.

"Isn't it wonderful, Morrigan! Alistair and Mel are going to have a baby!"

What little breath he has collected rushes out of him in a _whoosh!_ and he has to brace his arms against his knees to keep from toppling over. Leliana is still chattering away like a songbird but he cannot make head or tail of the words. It's all too much!

Before he can make his escape or throw out some witty quip or curl into a ball and sob uncontrollably, Leliana throws herself at him again, jumping up and down in delight, and begins spinning them both in circles. And by the Maker, she's still talking!

All he can see is a dizzying blur of colors and the ecstatic grin beaming back at him, but judging by the scoffing sound, Alistair assumes Morrigan doesn't exactly share the sentiment.

"It is not wonderful," Sten grinds out. "There is a Blight to stop. There is no time to waste on such foolishness."

Alistair tries to focus on the qunari, but it's impossible to catch more than a glimpse before he's thrown around to look at a tree or a tent or a fluffy cloud. He quickly gives up concentrating because it's only making him even more nauseous and he'd feel really, really badly if he were to vomit right in Leliana's face.

Perhaps the bard is aware of his discomfort, because she slows their mad dance before bringing them both to a gentle stop. Even though Alistair knows his feet are firmly planted, the world still feels as if it's flying all around him, so he lays down where he is and closes his eyes.

Damn them all.

"I agree." Morrigan says, "And not to mention that _Alistair_ will be contributing to the gene-pool." He manages to glare up at the witch, who has her nose turned up, as if she caught wind of some particularly offensive odor. It's possible, considering Oghren is standing right next to her. "He should not be allowed to breed!"

"I'm standing right here, thanks," he chokes out, sitting up, his glare undiminished.

"And that concerns me how?" Morrigan sneers, arms crossed as she scowls down at him.

Alistair really wants to punch her too, but it would be far from gentlemanly, and she'll probably turn him into a toad before he can so much as raise a fist. He settles for sticking his tongue out, which really isn't very much of a comeback, but he doesn't care.

"Ah, stop yer caterwauling, ya nug humpers!" Oghren growls, standing between them. "This calls for a drink! Al'st'r here's gotta say goodbye ter his freedom!"

Morrigan shakes her head in disgust, muttering to herself as she too flees back to her side of the camp.

Alistair can't help but roll his eyes. "Drinks... How did I not see that coming?"

"Don't scoff, boy. I was gunna offer you some of my special brew." The dwarf grins as though it were some prestigious offer, but after hearing his and Zevran's conversation about the brewing process, Alistair can soundly say he will never so much as consider the invitation.

"Look," he says, rising to his feet, glancing at each companion in turn, pleadingly. "You're all driving me crazy! Just—just _answer me. _Did Mel tell you all?"

"Tell them what?"

It's not really her voice that registers so much as her laugh. He's been so unabashedly desperate to get it out of her, that he would know that sound anywhere.

There is suddenly a large knot in his throat and no matter how hard he swallows, he can't seem to knock it back. Alistair slowly turns to face her, all dread and nerves and uncertainty. He has no idea how to confront her with this or how she might react. It occurs to him that there has never been a perfect opportunity to handle anything with her, so he takes a large gulp of air and decides to just try and get it over with, as usual.

"Uh…" And just like that, his eloquence _astounds_ him.

Mel's bemused expression falters, a crease forming between her brows. She glances past him, but apparently receives no answers from any of their companions. Alistair begs the Maker to _'please let Leliana say __**something!'**_, but the Maker has never been very keen on answering his prayers. Of all the times for the bard to keep quiet, this is not it!

"Is something wrong?"

Again he tries to find his voice, but all he can manage is a weak sort of groan. He settles for shrugging like an idiot. He gives it one more shot, fails, and runs a shaking hand through his hair, staring down at his feet.

There's a scuffle behind him and he glances back to find Leliana and Zevran shooing the rest of the group away. He's grateful for that. Truly.

"Alistair? What's going on?"

He can't meet her eyes, so he stares at the generous amount of freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks. There are forty-nine of them – not that he's ever taken the time to count…

"Walk with me." He's amazed he's able to say that much.

Mel nods and proceeds to lead the way into the cover of the forest. Alistair doesn't walk with her so much as he trails behind her, frantically trying to collect his thoughts. His mind is in such a buzz – a million words are swimming around and he feels as if he's been given a small net with which to capture them all. He can't concentrate on any singular idea and by the time Mel stops and settles herself atop a large rock, he feels far too numb to hold any sort of serious conversation.

She gestures for him to join her on the perch, but he only shakes his head and begins pacing. He runs his hands through his hair, blows out a shaky breath and shrubs his face, willing himself to speak.

"Look," he sighs, voice shaking. "I don't know why you didn't tell me, but I guess that doesn't really matter. I know." He's talking too fast, he knows, but he's nervous and has no idea what he's saying, and he feels all hands – a bumbling fool, as always.

Mel gives a very slight shrug, hands clasped in her lap. Her lips curl in a bemused grin and Alistair knows she is a breath away from interrupting him.

"And – And I'm not upset!" He adds hastily. "It's just… I sort of wish you'd told me, instead of Sten. That's not important. I, um – I never know what to say when I'm with you," he growls in frustration, more to himself than her. "I'd hoped I wouldn't be so… awkward anymore, but, well…" He chances a look at her, pausing mid-step. "I love you, you know that?"

He still gets butterflies in his stomach, saying it. Mel nods solemnly and he finally gets the nerve to look into those blue eyes. She seems confused, baffled, really, but she continues to listen patiently. She seems to know when he needs to rant, and he's done more than enough of that lately. That helps to bolster his courage some, knowing that she will at least hear him out.

"I don't know what this will mean for us," he continues, pacing once more.

He's never wanted to think about 'us' or 'after' or even 'later' because he has no idea if there will _be_ any of those things in the future. He cannot make empty promises, but now—now he has to think of 'after' because it's all that really matters now.

He draws in another breath, cupping his hands over his mouth, and exhales deeply.

"I— There's still the Landsmeet; they might make me King." That is, perhaps, the most terrifying sentence he's ever uttered in his entire life. "But no matter what, I will take care of you. I know you don't _need_ someone to do that. Maker," he chuckles softly, "you've taken care of me, in fact. But…"

"Alistair—"

Now that he's started babbling, he finds that he can't stop. "No, let me finish, please," he says firmly. "I don't really know anything about this. I've never had much of a family. Arl Eamon took me in, but the servants raised me – I have no idea what a normal family is like." He can't help but laugh, the bitter memory of that shrew Goldanna still fresh in his mind. "And if I'm crowned… Mages can't hold titles," he says meaningfully, giving Mel a pointed look. "I doubt I'd be able to do away with that law. Not right away, at least. But I'm not letting you go." He's never meant anything as fiercely as this. "Not – Not for **anything**." He has to make her see that. There is a fire in his chest and he suddenly feels the need to protect her. From what, he isn't sure.

"A-Alistair, what— Are…" Mel pauses, uncertain. A blush creeps along her cheeks, but she steadily holds his gaze. "Are you proposing… something?"

Alistair smiles nervously at that, well aware that he's blushing just as furiously. "I don't know. I don't think now is really the best time to…" he trails off, shaking his head. "Not until we know how this will all turn out. I can only promise that I'll do my best. Maybe— maybe that's not _enough,_ but I'm not going to promise something I can't give." Again, his eyes bore into hers.

He hopes he doesn't sound like too much of an ass, because he really doesn't mean to. He watches carefully as Mel lowers her gaze, biting her lip as she brushes a curl away from her face.

"I'm sorry," she mutters, sounding more polite than he's comfortable with. "But I have no idea what you're talking about."

A sigh escapes him. He can't help but feel a little aggravated, mostly because of what the others put him through, although he's certain she must have _some_ inkling of what he's talking about.

"About the…" He waves a hand vaguely, willing himself to just say it. "You… Argh. You being…"

Mel shakes her head, eyebrows raised high. She really doesn't have a clue.

"A-about the… pregnancy." He chokes on the last word.

It's odd to think about it really. It's not something he's ever given pause to before. When Isolde was expecting, he understood that it was a private matter – albeit a very important one. That certainly didn't keep the maids from talking— gossiping – squealing over it, to be honest. But still, it was never anything for him to concern himself with. What use did nine-year-old boys have for babies anyway? And at the Chantry he'd quickly learned that pregnancy was something sacred, perhaps, but it was never a subject one breached. Pregnancy meant relations and anyone who so much as thought of those particular relations was a sinner in the Maker's eyes and had to beg for forgiveness for such base desires. _The mark of any pious man: hours upon hours spent flagellating one's self in the dark._

He'd never imagined it would be of importance to him. After all, he had resigned himself to the fact that he would take his vows and live a life of the cloth. An exceptionally well-tailored cloth, but still— Now… Now he's an adult in a serious relationship. It scares and exhilarates him all at once.

"Um…" And now Mel is stuttering and staring at him like he's sprouted wings and declared himself King of the Halla. Alistair shifts his weight uncomfortably, wondering if it's still too soon to discuss this.

"If you don't want to talk about it…"

The mage shakes her head, dazed. A bit of hair falls free from its bun, and he struggles to refrain from tucking it back in place. Distance seems like a safe thing to keep right now.

"I just… Who's pregnant?" Mel asks.

He can only stare at her. Gape, more like. It's not as if she's never led him on before – she enjoys getting him flustered, he knows that; but if she thinks this is funny, he's going to give her a piece of his mind.

"Yooouuuuu," he stammers, pointing a finger defensively. He searches her face, looking for the right cue. There's no sign of a teasing smile, no mischievous glint in her eye. "…aren't. Are you?"

"N-no. Why—?" Mel is absolutely shocked. It's quite a difficult thing to achieve. He knows, because even when he admitted his true heritage back in Redcliffe, the mage had only worried her lip and asked if it put them in danger. She is positively unshakable.

But now she's breathless and looks sickly pale and he half-worries that she might _swoon, _which would be no small testament to the massive amount of **stupidity** he has managed to display. Not just to her, but the entire camp!

If he could bite himself in the ass, he would.

"I'm such an idiot. I'll just be over here, eating my feet, both at once, if you need me."

Alistair finds himself walking without purpose. He doesn't care where he's going or if he can find his way back to camp later. He wants – _needs_ – to be someplace else. Someplace where he can't make a monumental fool of himself.

"Sten told you that? Why?" Mel pants, a short distance behind him. Of course she won't leave him be – she never did like to let him slip off on his own. Probably for fear that he'd get lost and wind up in nothing but his small-clothes and stumble into the sodding, bloody archdemon. It was a tempting notion. Sans the part about losing his pants.

"I don't know…" he grumbles, taking large strides, vainly hoping that he just might outpace the mage. And then a nagging little voice starts up in the back of his mind. The one that tells him he knows something, he just doesn't _know _that he knows it. "Wait. Didn't he tell you to, you know…?" Alistair came to a halt, turning to face Mel.

She isn't furious, or angry, or even frustrated. She is _amused. _He hates that she can find humor in almost anything. No. No, actually, he loves that about her. Most of the time. Just not at his expense. He still has _some_ pride left.

"Promptly find a kitchen and bake him a cake?" she laughs dryly. "Yes."

"But, I mean… Would he have any reason to think…?"

Mel crosses her arms and rolls her eyes dramatically. "Aside from the fact that I apparently have a ravenous appetite and have been having an _obscene_ amount of sex lately?"

Alistair feels the heat from his cheeks radiate across his shoulders, his blush trailing its way down to his navel.

"Oh."

"At least, that's what Leliana tells me: I _glow."_

Except she really is glowing. A wisp of blue light flashes and dulls to a faint glimmer, encasing her. Mel laughs, her nose crinkling in delight. There is an ethereal look about her now, all mischief and charm and beauty and power. He can feel the magic radiating off her in dull little ebbs, very much like a tide. Alistair's heart stops for a moment before resuming a painful staccato against his chest.

His throat is dry and he really, truly, _desperately_ wants to kiss her, but he knows if he does that he'll completely lose track of the conversation.

So he clears his throat and presses on.

"I'm so sorry for… for making assumptions like that," he whispers. "I – Well, I really am an ass. Really." He rubs the back of his neck nervously, offering an apologetic grin.

Mel returns the smile, her spell gently fading away as she takes a small step towards him. "It's all right, Alistair," she says quietly. She suddenly looks almost… sad and he feels miserable for upsetting her like this, but he has no idea how to make things better. Stupid, stupid idiot that he is.

So he closes the distance between them and rests his forehead against hers, their noses touching lightly. It's a silly gesture, but it brightens her smile.

"I guess someone should go kick his ass and feed the rest of them to the darkspawn?"

He's rewarded with a soft laugh and an even softer hand caressing his cheek. "Once was enough," she replies.

Mel's fingertips trail along his jaw, his neck, resting briefly against his chest before she lowers her hand. His skin feels cool where she had touched him.

He only now realizes that the air has become chilled, the last dying rays of light filtering weakly through the thick woodland. They've been gone longer than he anticipated.

"We should go back."

Mel nods her assent and Alistair takes the opportunity to tuck an errant lock of hair behind her ear, if only to prolong their contact for another moment.

Mel looks away first and turns to go, sighing wearily. She seems far too old for her age.

But soon… Soon this will all be over, one way or another. It's not entirely the comforting thought it's meant to be.

He may not be blessed with the greatest timing in Thedas, but he knows that if he doesn't say this now, it will be too late.

"Mel. I meant it," he blurts out. His voice doesn't tremor or falter – it's strong and clear and he's glad for it, because he cannot afford to mess this up.

The mage stops in her tracks, looking back at him curiously.

In three strides he is before her, taking her hands in his. He wets his lips nervously before continuing. "All of it… Except for the, uh, baby part."

She smiles brilliantly and he knows in that instant that he cannot be without her because somehow she has become as much a part of him as his very heart – his soul. It doesn't scare him.

Mel slowly twines her arms around his neck as his own hands find purchase at the small of her back. The kiss is leisurely – soft and tender and he can only pray that it says everything he himself can't find words for. He's never imagined it would be possible to fall so hard for someone, even between the Blight and all the fighting, but somehow…

Somehow, he cannot imagine anything more perfect than this.

_"I wanted to wait for the perfect time, the perfect place…but when will it be perfect? If things were, we wouldn't even have met. We sort of…stumbled into each other, and despite this being the least perfect time, I still found myself falling for you in between all the fighting and everything else."_


End file.
